by Kris Tualla
Martin rubbed Dagny’s back. “No, it’s not. But this journey will end, and our new life will begin. Until then, we have each other.”
Dagny tilted her head back. Her long lashes were clumped together by her tears, resembling spikes on a stronghold. She searched his eyes, for what he didn’t know.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
Martin obliged without hesitation, claiming her mouth with his and plundering his prize. Dagny answered his every move. Her arms looped around his neck. He tightened his grip and lifted her until her feet left the floor, then sat her on the bed.
Dagny sank backwards, never breaking away from their kiss. Martin followed until he was stretched out on top of her. His hand moved to her bodice, cupping her breast through her clothes. Its malleable bulk filled his palm. He massaged and kneaded it, feeling the fullness bulge under his fingers.
He grew hard as iron. She had to feel him, pressed against her hip as he was. She moaned and broke away from the kiss. The concern in her eyes caught him and for a moment he wondered if he had moved too far too quickly.
“What will happen to you now?” she squeaked. “What will you do?”
Martin paused, unsure what she was asking him. “Do about what?” he asked.
She pushed her hip against his stiffness. “About that.”
He rolled to the side, still confused by her query. “I won’t do anything. I promised you that.”
Dagny’s eyes rounded under her lowered brow. “Won’t that be painful?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
Embarrassment turned her cheeks red as roses. “If it stays hard. Doesn’t that hurt?”
Martin sucked a gasp of understanding. He fought off the urge to laugh, and grasped the opportunity she laid before him. “It doesn’t stay hard. Give me your hand.”
Dagny timidly placed her hand in his. He pressed it against his trousers so she could feel his withering member. He forced himself to think about death and spiders and pickled fish to keep from stiffening again at her touch. “See? It’s a temporary state.”
“But I thought… I mean, Torvald said… Ugh!” She pulled her hand away and slapped her forehead. “Remind me that everything he ever said was a lie!”
Martin did chuckle then.
Dagny swiveled her head to face him. “Why did it become hard?”
Martin blinked. “Because I was touching you here.” He rested his hand on her breast.
“Oh.” Her eyelids drooped. “That was nice.”
Martin smiled at his wife. There was hope.
Chapter Twenty Four
June 23, 1749
Dagny sat at breakfast, alone at a table with Martin, and sipped her coffee with a contentment tempered by anticipation. Last night, when they turned off the lamp and went to bed, he kissed her and put his hand on her breast again.
Thankfully the silk gown proved an ineffective barrier as the heat from his palm flowed to her skin. Tingling sensations skated down her core. Her skin puckered and her tips hardened.
When he stopped his ministrations, he turned her over and curled against her back with his knees tucked behind hers. He nuzzled her neck, raising gooseflesh in the most pleasant way. His hand rested possessively on her hip. She tried to damp down her disappointment when his breathing began to rumble and she knew he was asleep.
Dagny reached for the hand on her hip and pulled it to her chest, nestling it like a blade between her breasts. She must have fallen asleep in that position because that was her last recollection.
Facing Martin across the table, she wanted so badly to ask him to complete the act with her again, but she couldn’t make herself say the words. What if the experience left her as frustrated as the last time? She had no desire for a repetition of those particular reactions.
If the women and mothers who congregated on the deck would have allowed her back into their company, she might have worked up the courage to ask one of them. Now she had no married females with which to consult.
No, that’s not true. I have Astrid Thomassen.
Astrid figured out her secret and helped prepare Dagny for her wedding night’s deflowering. And the woman was by all accounts not only married, but happily so. She obviously had more reliable knowledge than the nuns.
Martin touched her hand. “What are you pondering so deeply?” he asked in English.
“Pondering?” she asked.
“Thinking about.”
“Oh.” Dagny gave a dismissive shrug and tried her best to communicate correctly. “Later today I want to see Astrid Thomassen. To speak with her.”
Martin set his coffee down. “Why?”
It occurred to Dagny that Martin didn’t know of Astrid’s kindness. This was going to be a challenge to express in English. She used her hands to help shape her words.
“On the day we married,” she began. “No, on the night we married, Astrid comes to our cabin after we eat.”
“Astrid came to our cabin after supper?” Martin repeated. “Why?”
Dagny repeated the corrections in her mind and then said, “She knows the true.”
“How did she know the truth?” Martin prodded.
“Astrid knows the truth that I did never lay with you. I did never lay with any man,” she managed. “She said she sees this in me.” Concentration on the foreign language did not leave her any consideration for embarrassment.
Martin opened his mouth but Dagny held up a finger to stop him. “And… she said that you are a good man to say that we did lay together.”
“Did she come to the cabin only to tell you thus?” he asked.
Dagny shook her head, the embarrassment now creeping in. “She helped me be ready for you. With dressing, and washing, and my hair, and the bed.”
Martin stroked her cheek. “I had no idea. That was so very kind of her.”
“She was so very kind,” Dagny agreed. “And now she is my only friend. I want to speak with her.”
“Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense,” he agreed.
“Yes. Of course,” Dagny repeated with a broad grin. “That makes perfect sense.”
Martin’s head turned a little to the side. Torvald entered the dining space, following Anna Solberg. Dagny’s heart thumped when she saw them walking so close and whispering to each other. She needed to get over that disappointment, though the truth was it rested in the shock of betrayal, not in the mourning of lost favor.
The other couple took a table at the opposite end and never glanced toward Martin and Dagny.
Martin watched them from the corner of his narrowed eye. His brow crumpled in concentration.
“Martin?” Dagny ventured.
“Torvald Heimlich…” he mumbled. “That’s not quite right…”
Dagny slid her gaze sideways as well. “Much of Torvald is not quite right,” she responded.
Martin slapped his palm on the table and Dagny jumped, nearly leaving her skin behind her. The sharp, sudden clap echoed in the sparsely populated area, drawing all attention to Martin. He faced Dagny.
“Are you finished, darling?” he asked.
Whether Martin forgot he was speaking in English, Dagny wasn’t certain, but she answered him in that same tongue. “Yes, I am finished. Thank you.”
Martin held her chair as she rose to her feet, unable to resist a glance in Torvald’s direction. That man’s jaw hung slack.
Martin gave a polite bow in Torvald’s direction. “I trust you are feeling well today? No unpleasant after affects of our, um, accident?”
Torvald’s face paled at the revelation that Martin spoke English. It ruddied in turn when the result—he might have been overheard and understood—became obvious. He didn’t answer the question, but merely glared at Martin.
“I hope you both have a pleasured day,” Dagny offered, hoping her grammar was close to correct.
Martin snickered. She whirled to face him but he rubbed a hand over his jaw to remove all traces of mirth. She
gripped his arm and he led her from the dining space.
Once in their cabin, however, he guffawed.
“What is funny?” she asked, terrified that she misspoke in some horrible way.
Martin switched to Norse. The nuances of her word choice were too intricate for her fledgling English. “You meant to say, have a ‘pleasant’ day. But what you said was, have a ‘pleasured’ day.”
“Oh,” Dagny replied. Her eyes popped. “Oh! As in physical pleasure?”
“Yes!” Martin whooped, overtaken again by laughter.
Dagny screwed up her mouth and crossed her arms over her chest. “I imagine he will have both,” she groused. Fresh paroxysms sent Martin to his knees.
The unintentional humor of her salutation, combined with Martin’s unrestrained glee, soon got her to chuckling. “Did you see the look on his face?” she giggled.
Martin nodded, unable to speak.
“I thought he was about to birth a batch of badgers!” she squealed.
“Stop!” Martin squawked.
Dagny dropped to her knees next to her husband, enjoying their raucous gaiety. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed this hard. In truth, it might have been when she was nine and still at home with her sisters. Before her mother died, and her father sent her to live out her years at the abbey.
Martin wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dagny. I’m not laughing at you.”
“I know,” she assured him. Another giggle broke loose from her lips. “We are laughing at my unintentional wish that Torvald and Anna enjoy swiving today.”
Martin’s mood calmed a little. “Does it pain you to think of them together?”
Dagny sat back on her heels. “I believe what pains me is that I placed my faith in someone who didn’t exist. And,” she paused and worked up the courage to make her next confession. “I feel so very foolish when I think of trying to hurt myself because of it.”
“I don’t think you would have done it,” he said with surprising certainty, considering how close she had been to doing so when he stopped her.
“I was too weak,” she admitted.
“No. You were too strong,” he countered.
Dagny looked at her tall husband, folded into the scant floor space beside her. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He rested a hand on her thigh. “Dagny, the reason you couldn’t jump is because, in spite of what happened, you weren’t ready to die. Your strength kept you from letting go because you wanted to triumph.”
His words shocked her. What shocked her even more was the reassuring sense that he was right. “Do you think so?” she asked. While it was obvious he did or he wouldn’t have said it, Dagny wanted to hear his affirmation again.
Martin leaned closer. “I believed you were a strong woman from the moment you told me your name.”
“Then why do I feel weak?” she asked the sincere question.
Martin shrugged. “Perhaps you misunderstand what true strength is.”
Dagny thought about that for a moment. “I will consider your wise words, husband.”
Martin coughed a laugh. “Don’t saddle me with wisdom. I may have made the worst mistake imaginable.”
Dagny’s heartbeat stuttered. She felt all the blood drain from her face. “Marrying me?”
“No!” he shouted across the inches that separated them. “God, no! That was brilliant.”
Dagny’s relief would only be complete when Martin made his point very, very clear. “Then what?”
Martin’s gaze drifted away from her until he was looking at a time and place far removed from this ship. This time, she waited for him to speak.
“Leaving my family. Leaving my home,” he began. “Going to another country, on another continent so far away, and expecting that I will succeed.”
“If that was the worst mistake imaginable, remember that I made it, too,” she said.
Martin reached for her hands. She laid hers in his, palm to palm. His hands were so much bigger than hers, and the skin on his fingers bronzed by the sun. She considered the contrast, and wondered if two such different hearts could ever beat as one.
“I expect we shall discover that answer together,” he observed.
“I expect we shall,” she agreed. Then she tilted her head at a sudden thought. “Why did you slap the table?”
***
Martin threw his head back in disbelief when his wife reminded him. How could such a startling realization have slipped from his mind? He moved to stand and lifted Dagny to her feet. As they brushed their clothing back into place he pondered where to share his secretive information with her.
The deck, of course. On the deck, if anyone wandered close enough to hear them, their approach would be seen.
“Come with me,” he instructed, holding her hand. “I can’t tell you here.”
Dagny followed behind him, dutifully not asking questions though curiosity clearly claimed her features. Once they reached the top deck, Martin pulled her toward the largest open space at the ship’s bow. He glanced around, wondering for a moment if Torvald would hold races today, before he turned Dagny to face the head of the ship. He planted himself in front of her so he could observe anyone who approached.
“Torvald’s name is not Heimlich,” he began, keeping his voice low, and continuing in Norse. It was important for Dagny to understand everything he was about to tell her.
Dagny rolled her eyes. “I should not be surprised, should I? Do you know what his name is?”
“Torvald Heimlich is actually Tor Valdheim.”
Obviously the name meant nothing to her. Why should it? Her uncle wasn’t involved in discovering solutions for crimes as his was.
Martin leveled his gaze on hers, wanting to see her reaction to his coming words. “Tor Valdheim is a jewel thief in Christiania.”
Her stunned reaction did not disappoint him. “A jewel thief?” she blurted.
Martin’s glance swept over the clear deck. “Not so loud, darling.”
The color in Dagny’s cheeks heightened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But how do you know that?”
“First of all,” Martin grabbed his forefinger, “the name. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Tor Valdheim, Torvald Heimlich?”
Dagny nodded. “Yes, that makes sense.”
Martin tapped his second finger. “The theft of the jewels, of course. It’s what the man does.”
“Agreed,” she stated. “But how do you know about him? About Tor?”
“My uncle, Brander Hansen, calls himself a discreet gentleman of discovery,” Martin began the long explanation. “That means he is hired to investigate crimes, and to discover who committed them and why.”
“Is he the one who is deaf?” Dagny asked.
Martin smiled, pleased that she remembered the mention. “He is, yes.”
“Then how does he, I mean, how can he,” she stopped, unmistakably stymied.
Martin splayed his hands in front of his chest. “That is a story in itself. Well, several to be truthful. I’ll tell you all about him to entertain you during our long winter nights. But for now, suffice to say my uncle has been tracking Tor and thought he was close to finding him.”
“Perhaps he was,” Dagny posited. “Perhaps that’s why he left Norway.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. My uncle is quite talented at what he does,” Martin admitted. “I learned an enormous amount about crimes and the men—and the women—who commit them. I spent many of my summers at his knee.”
Dagny glanced over her shoulder at the still-empty deck. “What will you do now?”
“I’ll take the information to Captain Gilsen. Torvald’s trunk will need to be searched,” he replied. Truthfully, he reveled at the prospect.
“Wasn’t it searched already?”
“Not thoroughly after the spoils were found in yours. At that point they were merely asking which passengers were missing anything of value,” he reminded her. “Of course he would say nothing was taken from his. He want
ed to stay as far as possible from the thefts.”
“And my trunk was one of the first ones opened because it was near the front,” she pointed out. “His was in the back, as I recall.”
Martin nodded. “Just the way he planned it.”
Dagny growled and stalked away from him, arms stiff and hands fisted. She paced to the right, then to the left, then to the right again. With an abrupt twirl, she marched up to him and pointed her finger in his face.
“That weak excuse of a man is an unprincipled degenerate. He’s corrupt and sinful and a lying son of a mangy, flea-ridden bitch!” she exclaimed. “I never imagined a man could be so utterly contemptible, so thoroughly base, nor so blatantly shameless as to drag a naïve innocent so deeply into the filthy slime and putrid muck of his own unconscionable crimes!”
Martin stared at his wife, temporarily silenced by the vitriol of her powerful outburst.
Her angry gaze flashed up to his.
“What are we waiting for?” she demanded. “Let’s go talk with the captain. Now.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Captain Gilsen was not in his cabin. Martin watched Dagny fidget while they waited for the man to return, surprised by her determination to see Tor—or Torvald to her—buried. She stood and paced the width of the cabin, sat down, bounced her knees, then stood and paced again.
“What is taking him so long?” she whined.
Martin stuck his arm out and grabbed her wrist. “Dagny, don’t fret yourself. Torvald cannot go anywhere. We are in the middle of the ocean.”
“I know,” she said, dropping back into her chair. “But every moment he remains free is like another moment where he is getting away with his crimes.”
“One thing Onkel Brander pounded into my head was that there will always be justice. Even if we don’t see it.” He scooted his chair closer to hers. “Relax. Take a deep breath. If the accuser sounds unbalanced, then the crime sounds less likely.”
Dagny heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, my lord.”
Martin leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Sarcasm only wins you that which you wish not to have.”
Dagny opened her mouth to retort when Captain Gilsen’s striding presence slammed it closed.